The House of Builders and Machines
by King Reepicheep
Summary: "As stay at home mothers caressed their infants on porch swings, in a quiet neighborhood of Washington D.C., the capital city of the United States, a forsaken house lay on the end of a street." A serial killer calls Gibbs. T: Violence. Inspired by the songs "Bad Blood" (Live Piano Version) and "The Things We Lost in the Fire" (Abbey Road Sessions) both by Bastille.
1. Chapter 1

**The House of Builders and Machines**

**An Experimental Piece**

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><p>As stay at home mothers caressed their infants on porch swings, in a quiet neighborhood of Washington D.C., the capital city of the United States, a forsaken house lay on the end of a street.<p>

It was an Old Victorian of the 1920's decade. White horizontal paneling matched with wooden accents of beautiful aged windowsills molded the house into an old woman's face. The type of old woman that hands out caramel candies because she has nothing better to do than to sit on her porch and feed the occasional finch with stale old bread crumbs from yesterday morning. This house, innocent, and old like the old woman who feed the birds that used to occupy it, was now fading into history as a house of despicable evil and violence that lay to the destruction of humanity and the birth of this quiet utopian town that produced stay at home mothers who caressed their infants on porch swings.

It began with a phone call received by Mr. Leroy Jethro Gibbs who was sitting on his couch in his living room, which was a part of his quaint house in Washington D.C.

"Hello?"

Silence. A ruffling, as if the other end were being thrown into a pile of freshly fallen leaves. It was August. The leaves were still on the trees.

"Hello?" He asked again.

Breathing. Slow and rhythmic as if the owner of the breaths were matching a heartbeat.

"Mr. Gibbs," the voice answered, "my name is Christopher Luther Lyons, it is to my understanding that you are a Special Agent of NCIS?"

"Yes," Leroy answered. "What business do you have, who gave you this number?"

"Mr. Gibbs, I am here to report myself."

"I don't do police work sir," he said, "You're going to have to take this up to the local authorities."

"Yes, normally I would but you see I can't." Mr. Lyons said. "The reason behind is because I've killed someone, but very specifically, I have killed several of your friends, and to get even more specific than that, while they were asleep."

"Who?" Gibbs asked.

"Anthony DiNozzo, Timothy McGee, Leon Vance, Doctor Mallard, and Jimmy Palmer." Lyons answered.

Mr. Gibbs removed the phone from his ear, shook his head, sighed a bit, keeping his composure. He put the phone up to his ear again. "Where are you?"

Silence, followed by more rhythmic breathing.

"Mr. Gibbs," Christopher said. "I suggest you calm down."

"Calm down? I'm already calm thanks."

Christopher laughed to himself, "No you're not. Secretly, you want to strangle me to death, so I say again, Mr. Gibbs, I suggest you calm down."

"Alright," Gibbs said taking a few fake but convincing deep breaths, "I'm calm. Now, what do you want?"

Silence.

"Are you still there?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes." Christopher replied. "You can ask the question Mr. Gibbs."

"What question?"

"The question that has been plaguing your mind ever since I told you of my reasoning for calling you. So go ahead, say it."

Gibbs nodded, "Where are you?"

"You have more questions Mr. Gibbs, do not hesitate, I will answer."

"You haven't even answered my first one yet, how can I expected you to answer anything?" Gibbs asked.

"Because you already know the answer to that question Mr. Gibbs," Christopher replied, "now ask another one."

"Why did you do it?"

Lyons laughed, "Why does anyone do anything these days?"

"Listen to me," Gibbs said, "I'm going to find you and then I'm going to-"

"What, going to send an army after me?" Christopher replied, "I honestly think that you're riding on a cliché, a bluff." He laughed to himself again, "Boss."

"Only my employees call me that," Gibbs replied, getting a bit nervous, thinking to himself on how this person, this crazy, possessed murderer, would know that he is the head of his unit. "who the hell are you?"

"The question is Mr. Gibbs," Lyons asked, "who do you _think_ I am?"

The phone disconnected.

Footsteps from the hallway. Like a wolf hunting through the winter air charging toward an innocent deer, the killer himself, Mr. Christopher Luther Lyons, entered the living

His face was disfigured and inhuman. Snow white brittle, cracked skin, as if like clay. His lips were painted white and when closed, large, brutal and haunting scars, as if created by Cerberus, was the word _Silentium_, or _Silence_. Other than basic outlining of the nose, the face was completely featureless. Eye sockets, nostrils, and ears were not present. Mr. Lyons was literally a beast from hell unleashed onto the earth.

Christopher wore a black shirt, a leather jacket with a hood (that was over his head at the moment), black fingerless gloves, black combat pants and matching boots suggested that he was a military prodigy. He carried a Beretta M9, it was loaded with one bullet.

Gibbs looked behind him and followed Christopher with his eyes. Lyons stopped in front of him.

"How did you get here?" Gibbs asked.

Christopher said nothing, he just aimed the weapon at Leroy's head.

Gibbs stood up. "How did you-"

Christopher fired.

The bullet shattering the skull, entering the frontal cerebral cortex and lodging in the middle of it, creating massive head bleeding and immediate shock of the organs. The heart pumped blood rapidly trying to save itself, cling to final moments, say goodbye to the body. Gibbs fell face first to the floor, a slight echo of the impact was heard.

Christopher then positioned Gibbs' hand up and the gun near it, making it look suicidal. Then he slowly walked out of the front door, shut it on his way out and walked back towards the old white house.

Hours later, the last of Gibbs' agents, Kate Todd, arrived at the scene along with a K-9 unit, and other government officials for crowd control. The house was dark.

A news van was parked outside. A woman in her thirties who was at this job for years and was now hoping for a raise stood at the microphone. She was covering the story. _"Special Agent Leroy Gibbs of The United States Naval Criminal Investigative Service, better known as NCIS, supposedly committed suicide this afternoon. Officials however, suspect flow play and believe that the culprit is a man that calls himself The Builder who has been evading officials for the past twenty years. If you have any information regarding to this case please contact the Washington D.C. Police Department immediately." _

Kate turned on a flashlight which she carried in her hand.

"Jesus Christ!"

She saw the body, but she also saw a trail of blood that ran across the floor and up the wall on the other side of the room. In blood there was a message: _Silentium est vestri nex_ or Silence is your death.

Kate's phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Todd," the caller said, "my name is Christopher Luther Lyons..."


	2. Chapter 2

"How do you know my name?" Kate asked.

Christopher laughed, "Simple. I know everyone's name. Everyone in the world. For example, your mother's name is Emilia and is currently in the hospital after suffering a rather gruesome fall down the stairs last week. Your father on the other hand was killed in Monte Carlo, France in the early 1980's, you take after him professionally."

Kate began to sweat, no one else knew about her personal life, she tried to keep everything separate, to limit interferences. "How do you know this?" She asked, voice showing concern, sensing the feeling that whoever this Mr. Lyons was that he was in the room with her.

"That is also simple Kate," Christopher replied with a laugh, "I committed them. Your father's murder was unexplained, your mother claimed to have tripped, and Mr. Gibbs apparently committed suicide by the looks of it correct?"

Kate nodded, a small tear fell down her face. "What do you want from me?"

"It's nothing personal Ms. Todd you must understand," Christopher said as he hung up the phone and once again walked into the room emerging from the hallway in the same manner and carrying the same weapon as before. "I can't have any loose ends."

He aimed the Beretta, placing it directly on her temple. Several of the officers that were with her including the K-9 unit dog put up the defensive, while Kate just calmly stood there. Christopher controlled his breathing.

"In about three seconds," Christopher said looking at each man in the room except for Kate, "you are going to leave and forget everything you see."

He cocked the pistol.

"One," he slowly pulled the trigger,

"two," Kate breathed slowly, thinking of her options,

"three." The officers left, as if under hypnosis.

"What are you going to do?" Kate asked once she was alone with Christopher.

"Oh me?" Christopher said cocking his head to the side like a bird would. "Absolutely nothing. Except end your miserable life."

"Any particular reason?" Kate asked.

Christopher sighed and fired. Kate's body fell backwards, hitting the floor. Her face was clam, the blood on her head was almost peaceful, as if she died with no quarrels to speak of. Christopher stepped out of the house and re-entered the Old Victorian.

On the porch of this house, was an old woman. She was knitting an Afghan quilt, robotically as if that were the only function she could do. _Knit. Knit. Knit. Knit. Knit._ Ascending the small two stairs, Christopher looked at her. He smiled.

"Hello mother," he said. "How are you doing?"

The old woman smiled the best she could. "Fine dear." Christopher opened the door and entered the house but before he did so he looked at his mother's back and smiled. His work was that of human anatomy. Rigging the mind to perform his bidding, for on the back of this old woman's head was a small glowing apparatus. The rest of the back was mauled to death, as if from a wild wolf.

The parlor was straight out of Mr. Toad's _Toad Hall_. Wood flooring, a stone fireplace with a dead fire and silent winter log sat miserably to the right, a couch and matching settee from an 1838 estate in Eastern Maine imported originally from Spain had many lovers attached to it, but now lay in disrepair. The bookshelf which was once adorned with the likes of Hugo, Verne, Dumas, Milton, Hemmingway, and Aesop now lay barren, the fruit of knowledge plucked from its branches. The lamp that sat in the very furthest corner of the room, away from the light that dispersed from the narrow hallway that was directly in front of the door, no longer produced intellectual inspiration. It now lay broken, lame, and like Quasimodo of Notre- Dame, was hated by the world, when it had done the one kindness it could do, give hope in a dark, dreary house.

Christopher walked through the parlor, down the hallway, took a left which was another hallway, and continued until he reached the first door on his left. The door was wooden also, scratched to oblivion, splinter ridden, and bloody, the door no longer prided itself in welcoming people to the room that once housed a child. But rather cried every single time it opened because the door knew that the room was home to a monster, his torture chamber, and his demented friend.

This room was small and windowless. A small twin bed with bloody sheets and broken bed frame lay in the corner. The wooden floor was broken, torn upwards and like the rest of the room, was bloody and miserable. On the other side of the room lay a torture device. It was a large table like structure with leather straps and was reminiscent of Doctor Frankenstein. Next to this was a cage, and inside this cage was a bloodthirsty wolf. The mouth was watering, the eyes were feral, yearning to kill. Muscles extruding and pacing, the wolf growled at his master, wondering when a meal would be.

"Shut up Zain!" Christopher said as he sat down on his bed.

The wolf barked violently, almost as if demanding Christopher to feed him anything that was readily available. Christopher stood up, walked over to the cage and bent down on his knees. From his pocket, he pulled out a syringe and stuck it into the wolf's neck. Slowly the wolf calmed down and submitted to his master's will. Christopher petted the creature, feeling a smaller apparatus making sure that it was still embedded. It was.

"Good boy."

A small overhead light that was hung by rusted chain, swung slowly and flickered eerily as Christopher walked down the hallway. He turned right into a room.

This room was similar to the bedroom, only this one had a small window and two people. One was tied up and gagged. The other was standing. The person standing was Christopher's associate, his name was Hubert Lincoln Floyd, but preferred the name The Salamander. He wore a brown trench coat, muddy working boots, and wore an eye monocle. His hair was gray and balding. His eyes spoke of insanity and his voice reminded the captive of the Penguin from a Batman comic. The captive, who was a woman, namely, Abby Sciuto, looked up at The Salamander with a fearful expression with a hint of sass.

The Salamander held in his hand, an embalming tool and slowly began to move towards her. Abby kept her eyes on the tool, carefully watching, seeing if she could pinpoint the destination and somehow change the outcome of this situation but it's difficult when you are incapable of leg movement thanks to Mr. Floyd breaking her legs, she was basically helpless. Christopher walked in.

"Greetings Salamander." He said.

"Oh, hello Master Builder, are you ready for her?" The Salamander asked. Christopher nodded as he walked over, helped Abby to her feet.

"Where are you taking me?" She asked as she was being escorted to Christopher's room.

"A safer place," Christopher said, "you can rest, wake up, and leave, you won't have to go through anything else. No more pain, no more suffering, just sleep."

They entered the room. Abby looked around and noticed that Christopher was placing her on the table like device and strapping her in. "What are you doing?" She asked.

Christopher simply smiled and said nothing.

The Salamander walked into the doorway. "Anything else I can do sir?" He asked.

"Bring Mr. Gibbs and Ms. Todd in for me won't you?" Christopher said. The Salamander nodded and walked away, Abby noticed that on his head, was a small blue apparatus.

The wolf looked at her his mouth watered, Christopher opened the cage. Zain walked out, and asserted his generalship as he looked his prey over.

"You know very well what to do." Christopher said and exited the room.

Zain walked over to Abby and placed his forepaws on her torso and for a moment, Abby swore that the wolf was smiling.

"Let me have a conversation with you," Zain said in a devious voice. "I don't much like this idea of referring you as my lunch, but rather, as an equal."

"Y-y-you can talk?" Abby asked a bit confused.

Zain nodded with a slight laugh, "I was transformed by His High and Mighty No Face over there. I used to be human you know, I used to be like you, an upstanding citizen, a taxpayer, but all that changed."

"How did you get like this?"

The wolf smiled and got closer to Abby's face. "An experiment gone wrong, that's all I really have to say about it."

The wolf then removed himself from her and walked behind her, taking his position to do his work.

"Shame," Zain said, "you don't remember me at all. We used to be friends you and I, grew up together as kids. Shame it has come to this."

"What are you talking about, who are you?" Abby asked looking behind her.

"Why dear Abby," Zain said peering his head out looking at her, "surely you would remember Mathew Southerly, Captain of the high school football team, ex-boyfriend and denied proposal."

"Oh my god, Mathew," Abby said, growing a bit sympathetic, "I'm so sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" Zain asked, "It's a bit late for apologizes, besides, you're not at fault. You're honestly the last person I would want to maul to death. But sadly, telle est la vie, as the French say."

He began to move for his work when Abby screamed for him to stop.

"Stop, please, stop, you don't have to do this!"

Zain sighed, "Unfortunately, I have to it is his bidding." So he began his work despite protest after protest and the screaming, the wolf had done the deed. Abby was dead.

Organs spilled out onto the floor, sadly, Zain, formally known as Matthew whimpered a bit, his conscious feeling guilty, trapped by a system that kept him at bay.

Christopher re-entered the room and noticed that his wolf was looking depressed. "Cheer up Zain," Christopher replied, holding an apparatus in his hand, "you two can finally be together."

He placed the apparatus on the back of Abby's head. He then carried the body to The Salamander who did his specialty, re-animation of the dead.

When that was done, Abby walked down the hallway and back into Christopher's room and noticed that Zain was dead, his neck snapped, his eyes closed and the apparatus removed. Christopher sat on his bed, thinking in his head.

"Do you need me to do something for you?" Abbey asked.

"Yes," Christopher said, "I need you to take these," he handed her the Beretta M9 and a small pouch of white pills. Abby took them. "and I want you to go to the White House, I think it's pretty obvious what I want you to do."

Abbey nodded and exited the house. Christopher meanwhile, leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes (that is if he had any) and breathed for a moment. He pulled out a cell phone once he gathered himself and dialed a number.

"Hello Ms. David, this is Christopher Luther Lyons, remember me?" He asked.

_"Of course I do,"_ Ziva replied, _"anything I can do for you?" _

"Someone is going to kill the President in precisely thirty minutes," Christopher replied, "are you in Washington?"

_"Yes, do you need me to take care of it?" _Ziva asked.

"I wouldn't be calling you otherwise. Oh, and would it bother you if it was someone you knew?" Christopher asked.

_"That depends, who is it?" _

Christopher smiled. "Abby I believe is her name."

_"Abby? Why would she be after the President?" _

"She just is Ms. David, do you trust me?"

_"Not really, but I'm going to check it out anyway. It could be a misunderstanding."_

"You do that."

Christopher hung up the phone and smiled.

"Oh," he said to himself, "the perks of being a former employee." He dialed Abby's number.

_"Yes?" _Abby asked, car noise was in the background.

"There's going to be someone looking for you, a woman. Kill her."

_"Of course." _

Christopher hung up the phone once again and looked at Zain's dead body. Christopher sighed.

"That's problem with this technology," Christopher said, again to himself, "sooner or later they start to grow some reason. No matter," he stood up, "the world will be dead in thirty- two days anyway."

With that Christopher Luther Lyons walked down the hallway and for a moment heard joyous applause, the sound of innocent angels dying, and a new government being instated by a President and a people all rigged with blue glowing apparatuses. In Christopher's mind, the technology would wear off, but the damage would've already been done by the time anyone could come to their senses. The world would be his, and all he would have to do is waltz in and take up his positions, titles, and receive his royalties as President, Dictator, Enslaver of Humanity.

Christopher walked out to the porch, his mother was still knitting. Both of them looked out and saw the sun set, the last sun set of a free, just, humane world.

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><p>As stay at home mothers caressed their infants on porch swings, in a quiet neighborhood of Washington D.C., the capital city of the United States, a forsaken house lay on the end of a street.<p>

It was an Old Victorian of the 1920's decade. White horizontal paneling matched with wooden accents of beautiful aged windowsills molded the house into an old woman's face. The type of old woman that hands out caramel candies because she has nothing better to do than to sit on her porch and feed the occasional finch with stale old bread crumbs from yesterday morning. This house, innocent, and old like the old woman who feed the birds that used to occupy it, was now fading into history as a house of despicable evil and violence that lay to the destruction of humanity and the birth of this quiet utopian town that produced stay at home mothers who caressed their infants on porch swings...

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><p><strong>Fin<strong>


End file.
